


in the name of love

by jad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: #blameremmy, (except apparently when i do), (y'all ready for some real tags?), 50 shades of abaddon, A Metric Assload of Canon Parallels, Accidental Cockles, Bad Drop, Dean Winchester's Appalling Low Self-Esteem, Depression, Drug Use, Gabriel as Stephen Colbert, Homophobic Language, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Paranoid Delusions, Rockstar AU, SPN Live In Concert, Singer Dean, Slow Burn, Unsafe Sex, Violinist Cas, What If Monsters Weren't Real, Yeah you read that right, and Ash as Jimmy Page, everyone is naked at least twice, except the bit about the bracelet, guest starring Cain as Slash, i apologize in advance for the random impurity, i don't even write AU, i shamelessly stole/borrowed all of these songs from amazing artists, i swear dean's not a chronically repressed bisexual in all of my fics, i swear dean's not a subby masochist in all of my fics, i swear there is a perfectly good explanation for this that mostly does not involve me being drunk, jad went to see Kansas in concert and then this happened, nobody important dies, one of those things is probably not a complete lie, pls forward any complaints to remmyme, shouty kevin, that's all on reallyelegantsharkfish, this is all remmyme's fault, various kinds of kinks, various kinds of unhealthy behavior, various kinds of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-13 02:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20574758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jad/pseuds/jad
Summary: It's been four years since their first hit topped the charts, and now Supernatural is selling out all over the world. Dean hates the fact that he's the cliche trainwreck superstar, but easy money is a hard habit to break. When the band signs on their latest rhythm guitar, everyone is sure it's only a matter of time before he quits... and Castiel has to learn that it's a long way to the top if you wanna rock 'n roll.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remmyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/gifts), [vaudelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/gifts).

> Fic title from Def Leppard's _Pour Some Sugar On Me_. 
> 
> I highly recommend using my creator style for this, as some text messages are coded in HTML. I've done my best to code so that people who use their own skins and/or download the fic to pdf and e-readers will get a text version. Please let me know if you have any formatting issues and I will do my best to fix them!
> 
> There will be a Spotify playlist for each chapter, songs that inspired scenes or performances in order. You absolutely do not need to check them out to read this fic (but they're awesome and if you're into music you totally should), but some basic understanding of classic rock is certainly going to be helpful. Basically, if you've watched the show, you're golden xD
> 
> I have the best friends and betas in the world, RemmyMe & Vaudelin, they are amazing and have helped me brainstorm this madness for literal _years_, and I can't thank them enough. This one's for you two <3
> 
> [Playlist for Chapter 1](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0LiWv0Pyy530gTtpiu3jtf?si=iPhEmRc8SBa4EilXNqErlA)  


_hold me like a photograph  
_ _fragile like a piece of glass_

_the future's headed for the past  
_ _full of sparks that couldn't last_

_play until my fingers hurt  
_ _write until I find the words_

_so much that I wanna say  
_ _before the moment slips away_

_so hard to find this place  
_ _so hard to catch this chase_

_now that you fell into me  
_ _hit me like a melody_

*

**i. shine on until tomorrow**

* * *

Sam's stepping off the elevator on the 52nd floor when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Ninety percent of the firm is here tonight for the stupid Christmas party — Jess wanted to go, because it's Christmas and there's an open bar — and when she showed him the dress she intended to wear, he stopped arguing.

He ignores his phone; if it's important, someone will just pull him aside and tell him.

Jess gives the clerk her coat and offers her arm. Sam lets her guide him into the room, blinded by the lights on the ten-foot-tall tree in the center of the room. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan looks a bit like a snowglobe someone turned upside down and shook. 

_Bzzt, bzzt._

Jess is relieving a waiter of two glasses of champagne while he digs the phone out to frown at the message. "Really? They do realize you're _in the room_, right?"

For a loaded moment, Sam thinks about not telling her because there isn't anything he can do about it _right now_ — and Jess fixes him with that look that says exactly how lying will pan out for him. "It's from Dean."

Jess instantly deflates, even looks a little worried. "Oh Lord, what has that boy done now?"

Sam shoots a text back, then shoves the phone in his pocket and scrubs a hand over his face. "Tessa quit."

"_What?_" Jess claps a hand over her mouth immediately after, her exclamation so loud it's drawn some attention. "When?"

"Just now, apparently." Jess looks sympathetic, but Sam cuts her off before she asks _do you need to go?_ because Dean's likely setting something on fire in vengeance or celebration and fuck, this is exactly why Sam left in the first place. But damage control can wait, or at least be done over the phone, because it's _Christmas _and Jess is wearing a little red dress that Sam's really looking forward to removing later. "It's alright, I'll — "

He stops as his phone buzzes again, the more incessant vibration that signals an incoming call. Sam picks it up without thinking, then immediately holds it about a foot from his ear to protect what little sense of hearing he has left as Dean shouts, "_No, I didn't fucking sleep with her!_"

"Merry Christmas to you, too."

"Hi Dean!" Jess adds, and Sam's a little annoyed how Dean's voice drops to a normal octave long enough for him to say _hi, sweetheart, how's my asshole brother treating you?_ before switching right back to full-volume-bitch-mode about breach of contract and the upcoming tour and how Tessa waited just long enough to get the payout from Woodstock, then leave them high and dry for Madison Square Garden, that _cunt_.

"Yeah, okay, look, it'll be fine, all right? I'll call Cain. Yeah, I know, she's — look, I can't — can I call you tomorrow? Don't set anything on fire, okay?" Sam hangs up without waiting for a response, and chugs the champagne Jess offers him. She raises an eyebrow. "Cain'll fill in," he assures her, because Cain still owes him for getting him off that attempted-murder charge from the awards ceremony last year. Who the fuck takes a knife to the Golden Globes, anyway? 

Sam needs whiskey and failing that, a _lot_ more champagne. "Where the hell is the bar?"

The rest of the party is pretty tame, and Sam's phone is suspiciously quiet aside from three texts he receives about twenty minutes apart after Dean's call. 

Charlie  
  
**Charlie:** I stole his keys, emptied the minibar in the toilet, and liberated his lighter  
  


Benny  
  
**Benny:** Gave his .45 to Bobby before he could do anything stupid.  
  


Bobby  
  
**Bobby:** You can expect my resignation letter in the morning.  
  


Sam has a shot of whiskey. And another.

Jess is doing most of the talking, charming the pants off his coworkers and fellow partners alike. Brady eventually drags her off to dance because there's a little string quartet playing down in the gallery; Sam didn't dance on stage in front of twenty thousand people and he's certainly not going to start now, so he lets them go and orders another round.

He eventually goes to find them, though, because the bartender is giving him a look like he's got a mind to swipe Sam's keys. There's a little spiral staircase leading down to the open foyer and Sam can hear the music before he descends. It sounds familiar, _really _familiar, but he's never listened to classical between John and Dean's music habits, so he has no idea what he recognises it from.

Jess and Brady are slow-dancing in the center of the group, and Sam just watches for a while and wonders what the hell he did to get so lucky. Jess laughs at something Brady says before he spins her gently, and it's in watching them Sam realizes the reason he recognizes it is — it's _Let It Be_ and wow, that actually sounds pretty damn sick on string, who knew? The violin mimicking the vocals could give Paul McCartney a run for his money.

"They're amazing, aren't they?" Jess says, breathless, when Brady gives her back. She's glowing in the low light, soft gold ringlets of hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, teeth blindingly white against her lipstick. "They're taking requests. I didn't think they'd know any, but the guy said he can improvise... " She shrugs. "Oh, hey, let me see your phone? I left mine in my coat."

He hands it over without asking why; the next song has started up, and Sam _definitely_ recognises that melody. He spent close to a month listening to Dean bang it out on his acoustic in the old garage. It was the song that first put them at the top of the charts, some four years ago, when Dean still had to work part-time as a mechanic to pay rent and put Sam through school.

Sam's so lost in the intro he doesn't notice the lead violinist is actually in the crowd until he starts playing, bow slinging out notes that Sam can still hear Dean singing softly under his breath in the back of the Impala, right down to the attitude and pitch. He circles around Jess with a flourish, doing a kickass instrumental version of _knocking me out with those American thighs_.

He's not bad-looking, either, insofar as Sam will allow himself to judge, dressed in a dark suit and waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled down to expose muscular forearms. Neatly-combed black hair frames bright blue eyes that Sam doesn't really appreciate eyeballing Jess, thanks much, but Sam should be used to it by now because Jess is a bit of a bombshell. He feels better when Waistcoat takes himself back to the stage, and Sam slings a possessive arm around his wife.

Sam does have to admit the guy can play a fucking violin, though — the sound of the vocals meld seamlessly into the guitar solo, and it's so spot-on it gives Sam goosebumps, drags him back to the days of living out of shitty motel rooms from one gig to the next, making barely enough money to keep the cars gassed up to reach their next destination.

Jess has his phone out and is filming the whole thing. When she catches him looking, Sam suffers a Freudian moment when she mouths, "Awesome, right?"

He doesn't realize she's sent it off to Dean until an hour later, when his phone _bzzt_'s again and he sees the single line of reply:

**Dean:** does he know how to play a guitar?

+

Castiel knocks on the door one more time. Third time's the charm, and all that — or better be, anyway, because he feels like a idiot standing in this obnoxious hotel hallway in the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, with the old, ruffled bodyman next to the door giving him dirty looks. He's about to turn around and leave when there's the tell-tale jingle of someone messing with the lock on the other side, so Castiel waits. 

And waits. 

He's about to leave again when the door finally jerks open, barely a couple of inches, exposing a long line of naked flesh littered with snippets of tattoos. Castiel vaguely recognizes the man, more by the wild dishwater mullet than anything else. 

He looks Castiel up and down, single visible eye vaguely suspicious, and sniffs. "You a cop?"

Castiel looks down at himself; under the trenchcoat, he's in a suit that is a size too large and has seen better days, but it's all he had on short notice. There's still snow melting on his shoulders, and his nose is numb. Otherwise unadorned, he could see how someone might mistake him for an underpaid city detective or possibly an insurance salesman. But he has his guitar case slung over his back, and violin in his left hand. "Um," he ventures. "No."

The man still looks skeptical. "Rufus," he says, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that he's talking to the man on the door, "you told me you took care of that little indiscretion."

"I did," Rufus grumbles back. "Though I'll thank you not to make me perjure myself in front of the NYPD ever again. Let the man in already, Ash."

_Ash_. Right. Lead guitar. 

"S'pose you should come in," Ash decides. He pulls the door wider and leaves it open, sauntering off without looking back. Castiel wishes he could appreciate the view of his naked ass as he walks away.

Castiel follows him due to a lack of direction otherwise and this place is.... well,_ huge_ really doesn't do it justice. _Ostentatious_. When Balthazar shot him a message with the location, he'd called back just to check. _Empire Suite, The Carlyle_. Castiel had Googled it just to find the actual address (not everyone could afford to take cabs in this city, all right?) and saw an article in the web search that listed the top fifteen most expensive hotel suites in Manhattan. 

Against his better judgement, Castiel clicked the link.

True to its truly ridiculous price-per-night, the place is beautiful, covered in marble, crystal, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a fantastic view of Central Park. There's a twisting staircase leading up to what appears to be a second floor. Castiel follows Ash's path to the main room, and is greeted with the sight of more nudity; two women this time, half-curled around each other on a plush couch. On the glass-top table next to them are several empty dime bags, a couple of razor blades, and a hundred dollar bill that's been rolled so many times it just decided to stay that way. 

Ash retrieves a wrinkled sheet off the floor and ties it around himself like a toga before leading Castiel into adjacent the kitchen. He opens the fridge and sighs. "I'd offer you a beer, but," he says, but waves at the empty bottles around the kitchen in explanation. He opens the freezer and makes a noise of triumph. "But we have vodka!"

_It's two o'clock in the afternoon_, Castiel thinks, but remembers where he is and holds his tongue. "I'm good. Thanks." Ash shrugs in a _more-for-me_ acceptance gesture and drinks straight from the bottle. "So... I'm not exactly sure why I'm here. I got a call and — "

"Oh, yeah," Ash says after a wincing swallow. "His Highness is upstairs. Hold that thought." He wanders back towards the staircase and disappears without another word, leaving Castiel and the two naked girls in the den. Castiel resists the urge to find a blanket to throw over them.

Castiel is about ten seconds from writing this off as just a weird afternoon when there's noise from the entryway. He hears laughing and a high-pitched squeal of excitement before they round the corner, arms loaded with pizza boxes, a tray of coffee, and a six pack. The two newcomers look inordinately out of place; the girl's in green skinny jeans and graphic t-shirt that proclaims _I don't have birthdays, I level up!_, her long red hair buzzed away on the sides; the guy's got short, limp brown hair, large eyes and an even larger nose, and looks extremely skinny in a shirt three sizes too large, threadbare holes picked at the hem. 

"Hey," the girl says, dropping the pizzas on the counter, "it's you! Hah! I _told_ him you'd show."

She engulfs Castiel in a hug without warning or bothering to introduce herself, shoving him back against the island, fly-away hairs getting caught in his coat fasteners. Thankfully, the guitar case is a hard one, so Castiel is the only one she inflicts any damage on.

"That's Charlie," the guy says, because, Castiel suspects, he was raised with manners. "She does that to everybody. Sorry."

"Don't apologize for me, Garth," Charlie says, and holds Castiel at arm's length to look him over. "Wow, that video Jess sent was really shitty quality, okay? No hetero or anything, but, you're kind of gorgeous."

"...thank you?" Castiel says, for lack of anything else. No hetero or not, he isn't sure if he's supposed to return a compliment, or perhaps ask them if they've checked for a pulse on either of the two passed-out girls on the couch, or maybe just run for his life. "Did I come at a bad time, or — "

"He's not up yet, huh," Charlie says, rolling her eyes. "Typical." She bounces over to the staircase Ash disappeared up a while ago and bellows, "_Hey, Sleeping Beauty, your prince has arrived!_"

Garth wanders over to the fridge and has barely opened the door before Ash's voice descends from upstairs: "What are you putting those in the fridge for? Bring 'em up!" Then, almost as an afterthought, "And bring violin boy while you're at it!"

_Violin boy_ reverberates around Castiel's head while he's unceremoniously dragged upstairs and deposited at the top, left without any direction as Ash relieves Garth of the beer. There's another common area at the top of the stairs, a wide open space full of sunlight and white walls. Aside from a few pieces of minimalist couches, a jet black baby grand piano is the only piece of furniture in the room. Castiel wavers there for a moment while there's a small argument about _why'd you'd only get a six pack? _and _you just said bring the beer up, not the pizza, dude,_ before the traffic jam breaks, Garth and Ash going back downstairs and nearly taking Castiel with them. 

Charlie grabs Castiel by the wrist and half-drags him down the hall on the right, throwing open the door the master bedroom without bothering to knock, proclaiming at the top of her voice, "You know, it's really rude to set appointments and not bother to set an _alarm_."

Face-down on the bed is another naked backside, albeit one much more pleasing to gaze at than the others Castiel's been privy to this afternoon.

There's a pretty fantastic tattoo along the right side of his back — three vicious-looking black dogs snarling and scratching their way out of his skin and Castiel tries to focus on that, or the strange red symbols etched into the back of his left calf, and not the well-formed ass in between. He fails pretty miserably as Charlie drops his wrist, plops on the bed, and smacks said well-formed ass with considerable force.

"_Sonofabitch,_" Dean yelps into the pillow. It's the only name Castiel knew before he came here — even people raised under rocks know who _Dean fucking Winchester_ is. Castiel makes a valiant effort to avert his eyes as Dean rolls over and props himself up on an elbow to glare at Charlie. It's the effort that counts. "At least buy me fucking dinner first. Christ."

"Not my type," Charlie says cheerfully, patting his cheek. "And you should probably put some clothes on," she adds with a wicked smile, and Dean follows her line of sight to Castiel, still standing in the doorway trying to look everywhere except parts of Dean women the world over would wage wars for. "I _told you_ he'd show."

Dean takes a moment to look Castiel over, seemingly unbothered that his — well, everything — is on display for Castiel to see. He stops when he meets Castiel's eyes, and says without looking away, "Where's Benny?"

"Nursing a hangover, last I saw," Charlie supplies. "I'll get some coffee into him," she says, pushing off the bed and wrinkling her nose, "and you — know that I say this with all the love in the world — _reek_. If you care for me at all, remedy that."

"Yeah, yeah, Your Highness," Dean says and Castiel lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding when Dean looks away, eyes following Charlie out of the room.

Castiel is about to follow her when Dean says, "Are you some kind of a mute, or what?"

"What?" Castiel says, turning back around. It actually hurts to talk when his mouth is so dry and, fuck, Dean's standing up, stretching until something in his back _pops_, letting it all hang out and Castiel is not staring, okay, just wondering what the hell these people have against pants.

Dean has more tattoos in the front, too, and Castiel has seen them all before to some degree, on magazine covers and clips on the news, but he's never bothered to really _look_. And he always assumed those images were airbrushed like the women are, nobody could ever look that flawless in real life. Only... only apparently they can; Dean's eyes really are that obscure shade of green, miles of unblemished skin dusted with freckles more common on _Covergirl_ models than rock stars, and has a mouth full of perfectly straight, white teeth, and just enough scruff that you could feel it scrape beautifully across your skin if you were lucky enough to warrant his undivided attention.

_Probably veneers, _Castiel thinks. It doesn't help. 

"Hey, he speaks," Dean says, bending down looking for... pants, Castiel hopes, and bites the inside of his cheek. It's two in the afternoon and _still_ too early for this shit. "Benny's got an amp in his room you can use, whenever Charlie drags him out of his misery." He straightens up and Castiel's eyes snap back to his face; if Dean notices, he doesn't show it. "Unless that's an acoustic?"

Castiel blinks, and it takes him a moment to realize Dean's talking about his guitar. "White Falcon."

Dean makes a face that Castiel isn't sure to interpret as surprise or unimpressed. Dean finds what he was looking for — a flask, apparently it's happy hour in the rock 'n roll world — and takes a swig, throwing his head back and giving Castiel full-frontal proof that those magazine covers were, if anything, understated.

It would take a while to catalogue all the tattoos but Castiel tries because it's that or stare at his hips. Dean has a mostly-full sleeve depicting what looks like demons engulfed in the fires of Hell all the way up his left arm, still bare and unfinished at the shoulder, and the flaming pentagram over his heart the Winchester brothers made infamous. A latin phrase Castiel doesn't recognize is written in huge letters up his left side, and a weird antelope bust over the back of his right hand, long horns twisting up his forearm. And last but not least, a revolver on his right hip, life-size, its long thin barrel pointed straight at his — 

Castiel forces his eyes back up. Dean isn't even looking at him anymore, rubbing the sleep from his eyes on his way past. He's... taller in person. Bigger in every sense of the word, really, if Castiel's going to be fair. 

He isn't. Going to be fair, that is. But can definitely appreciate the view this time as Dean saunters into the ensuite bathroom, and has to clamp down on the instinctual urge to follow him, just to see if those old _TMZ _rumors held any truth.

"Hey," Charlie says, poking her head back around the door and making Castiel jump. "You comin', or just gonna stand there and watch?"

  
+

The best thing about five-star hotels, in Dean's opinion, is that there seems to be no limit on scalding hot water. He's tempted to leave the shower on one day, just to see if it ever turns lukewarm. Y'know, for _science_.

As much as he misses the anonymity of playing bars and clubs up and down the interstate, he doesn't miss the old motels with their weird stains and saggy mattresses and the same standard for water pressure as a leaky faucet. He certainly doesn't miss having to cut into their beer budget to replace busted strings, or how Charlie would get creeped on by every sorry sonofabitch in the room, though he does miss the occasional fight in an attempt to defend her honor. Not that Charlie needed defending; the girl had a mean right hook all on her own, and had started carrying once they left state lines (much to her chagrin, but Dean had insisted if she ever planned on going anywhere alone, and that included the bathroom).

He does miss Sam something fucking awful, but Sam had been at his side since he had memories, and his abrupt departure still stung. Dean listened to the excuses (_reasons,_ _Dean, they're not excuses, for Christ's sake_) and let him go, because what else could he do? Sam had no obligation to stick around, and after everything, Dean really couldn't blame him. He did anyway, occasionally, but he's over it and it's not his fault Gordon was a fucking psychopath, is it? And Jo did great until she got sick (_reason, not an excuse_), and then Tessa was... fine, even if her direct stare and annoyingly flippant attitude about everything always made Dean a little uneasy.

Until Tessa wasn't fine, she up and left, and Dean was kind of hoping Sam had enough of the quiet life and maybe, just maybe, wanted to go on one last tour.

_People in the real world just can't put their lives and careers and on hold to go on tour, Dean._

Dean doesn't see why the fuck not, but that's why Sam has a wife and a mortgage and is partner in a firm, and Dean can't remember the last time he had a mailing address.

It doesn't occur to him that, while he's being indulgent in the hot water reserves, there's people waiting on him. Shit like that stopped mattering around the same time Dean stopped checking his bank account. 

He's toweling off when he hears them. Someone is banging out the familiar melody to _Don't Stop Believin'_ on an acoustic in the loft, and Dean rolls his eyes. If that's the best audition this guy's got, Ash is going to kick him down the stairs before he gets to the chorus.

Dean stops when he hears the vocals, only they're not vocals, but notes — high, fluid sounds like warm, liquid honey and okay, Dean's waxing poetic in his own mind, but he's an artist. He's _allowed_.

He's pulling an old grey t-shirt over his head as he steps out of the hallway, just in time to see this guy slip effortlessly from the crescendo to _a singer in a smoky room_ and Dean knows it's not as easy as it looks, knows the kind of hours and sore fingers it takes to pull something like that off. He's about to interrupt because he's heard enough, and then the notes go from the high pitch of _on and on and on and on_ to a radical shift on the low end of G string for _up and down the boulevard_; Dean stops and just listens.

The guy is tall, maybe not as tall as Dean or Benny, but still in the range of six feet and lithe, the long line of his body silhouetted against the white walls and snow-flurried windows, sunlight shining around him in a halo. His hair is parted so neatly that Dean could line it up to a ruler, and he’s clean shaven, exposing a square jaw, and has the kind of high cheekbones that Dean could cut himself on if he got close enough. He's discarded the baggy trench coat to reveal a loose button-down rolled up at the sleeves, forearms well-toned from what Dean suspects is a mixture of working out and spending six hours a day holding a violin. His right arm guides the bow across the strings in a fluid dance of up-and-down, in-and-out, tendons and muscles causing the skin on his arms to endlessly shift. His eyes are open while he plays but heavy-lidded and unfocused, and Dean knows the look, has seen it before when Ash gets into one of his trances while working out a new solo or when Kevin's trying to sync six amps, five microphones, and eighteen different speakers.

Charlie and Garth are humming the lyrics under their breath and Benny, looking no worse for wear, is watching from the couch with his arms folded while Ash keeps the beat with Dean's old acoustic. Benny catches his eye and raises an eyebrow and Dean knows why; he's been bugging Dean for a while now about a new sound. Dean's mostly ignored him; Garth can pull out just about anything on a keyboard, but if this guy wants to show off, then Dean's content to let him.

As the song trails off, it's to an enthusiastic applause from Garth and Charlie, and a rare smile from Ash. 

"Can you just, like, follow me around and play the soundtrack of my life?" Charlie asks and that actually gets a laugh from Benny. It's the first time Dean's seen him smile in weeks.

"That would be terribly impractical," the guy says. His voice sounds sex-rough, like tires spinning in loose gravel, but friendly enough. Dean is honestly trying to remember his name, but it feels kind of rude to ask at this point. He finally notices Dean standing behind him; his eyes roam over Dean, and the corner of his mouth turns up sharply. "Hey, he does own pants."

That earns another couple of laughs and Charlie is fangirling so hard she's in danger of spontaneously combusting. "Oh my god, can we keep him? _Please?_"

Dean pushes off the wall and slips into the bench behind the piano, runs his fingers down the keys to check the tune. "That depends," he says, soundcheck complete. He locks eyes with the guy, tilts his head in question. "You obviously know your way around a string. How good are you at improv?" 

"Seriously?" Charlie is in his face and Dean pointedly ignores her, because he's still got Blue-Eyes’ gaze and he's not going to look away first. "While you were in the shower he knocked out a _November Rain_ solo that even Ash couldn't find fault with."

That does get Dean's attention, and he shifts his gaze to Ash, who shrugs. "String's a string, man. That's a kickass Falcon, by the way," he murmurs, picking up the white semi-acoustic still sitting in its open case. Not nearly as fancy as the violin he's wielding, Dean suspects, but a nice choice in its own right. He would have been fine to play without an amp.

Dean looks back at the violinist, and lets his fingers wander along the keys. It's an easy enough melody to play by ear, but the vocals — since that's what this guy likes showing off with — are another matter entirely. "Hey, if you can't manage," he says with a light shrug, and smirks when the guy's shoulders stiffen. Dean should know better; he still bears a few scars from not knowing when to walk away from a challenge.

There's a stretch of quiet aside from the melancholy sounds coming from the piano and Dean just loops it, sees the guy counting the beats in his head, and just when Dean thinks he's going to tell them all to fuck off and leave, he raises his bow to the strings.

The first verse is quiet, so quiet that Dean can barely hear it over the piano, but seems on-point. It's just as impressive as the rest, but the guy isn't moving as much as he did in the video or the previous song, just standing there with his eyes closed and fingers darting along the neck of his violin, rosin dust diffusing the afternoon light shining in the windows. He gains a little more confidence in the second verse, catching the little fluctuations in _mama, ooooo-ooo-oooh_, and flowing neatly into _if I'm not back again this time tomorrow, carry on _and Dean can _hear _the words in the notes, as if the violin has grown a mouth of its own.

He doesn't seem to be struggling so Dean keeps going, lets the sounds sink into his skin and doesn't even realize he's stopped playing his part when _sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all_ transitions into a guitar solo that even Ash had trouble mastering.

The guy pauses after that, last note ending abruptly in an unhappy squeak of strings and looks a little confused, like he isn't sure if this is some sort of joke, like him and his stupid fiddle didn't just make Freddie fucking Mercury look like some kind of amatuer.

"Is this the part where you explain to me what I'm doing here?" he asks, killing any hope of a compliment.

Dean is saved answering when "_Hey, asshole!_" drifts up from below, a harbinger of the Asian fury on its way. Kevin does a double-take as he gets to the top of the stairs, glaring at the stranger with the violin, and Dean's at least thankful in this moment that Kevin doesn't have the same filters as normal people because he simply demands, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Castiel," Blue-Eyes replies, looking a little bewildered at the sudden appearance of the tiny shouting man.

Kevin blinks, because usually when he shouts at people they cower, but Castiel — what kind of name is that, anyway? — holds his ground and just looks down at him. Dean hopes for a second that Kevin's lost his stride, but he recovers quickly and resets his sights on Dean. "How is that Tessa fucking quits and I am the last fucking person _in the entire fucking world_ to hear about it?"

Dean sighs and gestures sort of helplessly at the universe around him, but it doesn't offer any assistance. It's not like he's the one leaking this shit to the press, for fuck's sake. "I told Sam, figuring he would tell you, and — "

"Sam is not your fucking stage manager!" Most people think Dean's going to overdose on something or melt away into oblivion like a respectable rock star, but those people don't know Kevin, or they would understand that he's actually going to be Dean's official cause of death. "Sam doesn't have to reprogram all of Madison fucking Square Gardens because you can't keep a fucking rhythm guitar!"

"Jesus, you don't have to shout, and there are ladies present," Dean mutters, pushing away from the piano and Kevin in one movement. He catches Castiel's gaze on his way past, and claps him hard on the shoulder. "We'll be in touch, all right?"

Castiel keeps his gaze and doesn't flinch under the touch. It's warm and solid under Dean's hand and he lets go quickly, doesn't wait for a response as he heads downstairs. Kevin's voice follows him into the kitchen with, "And has anyone bothered to check these fucking girls for a pulse?"

+

~wincest is real~ ([](/profile)[**WINCESTERBROS**](/)) wrote in [](profile)******[OHNOTHEYDIDNT](0)**

## TESSA'S OUT

Merry Christmas: The Reaper Splits From SPN @EW [ http://ew.it/2q7djhxQ ](http://cnn.it/2q7iJxQ)

Fucking finally. So maybe we can get Sam back now? No official comment but the consensus seems to be that Dean needs to stop fucking his bandmates.

**537 Comments**  
← 1 [2](115734855.html?page=2#comments) [3](115734855.html?page=3#comments) [4](115734855.html?page=4#comments) [5](115734855.html?page=5#comments) [6](115734855.html?page=6#comments) [ →](115734855.html?page=2#comments)

TAGGED: **SPN, SUPERNATURAL, RUMOR/GOSSIP**

**spnismyjam** replied:

rich coming from a brobanger LOL

**xxxspnforeverxxx** replied:

wait what?? this is a hoax right

_Anonymous_ replied: 

about fucking time they only hired her bc she had tits bitch couldn't find a rhythm if it smacked her upside the head

**BeckyWinchester167** replied:

ARE WE GETTING SAM BACK???

**xianom11** replied:

If they don't get Sam back I'm so fucking done with this band.

**hellhoundsandguitars** replied:

Peace out, slut! 

**samxlovesxdean** replied:

Jess Winchester is a beard CONFIRMED!!! Can't wait to get Sam back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> intro lyrics from _On and On_ by the Score.
> 
>   * Let It Be (The Beatles, Vitamin String Quartet)
>   * You Shook Me All Night Long (AC/DC, VSQ) 
>   * November Rain (Guns 'n Roses)
>   * Don't Stop Believin' (Journey, VSQ)
>   * Bohemian Rhapsody (Queen, VSQ)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ **Playlist for Chapter II** ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4xBtSo0htvCwKKGQkohre5?si=TQp9J0ytRgOvGJberKTdiw)

**ii. here but now they're gone**

* * *

"He's _cute_," is the first thing Charlie says the moment they're alone. She drags out the vowel and waggles her eyebrows in case Dean doesn't take the hint. "Assuming you like them tall, dark, and mind-blowing."

Once the girls had been dressed and safely deposited in a car with directions to take them wherever they wanted to go, Kevin turned his energies on the rest of them, alternating between ineffectually shouting at Ash (the more Kevin shouted the more bowls he smoked, so they about evened each other out) and ineffectually shouting at Benny, who used to shout back but had lost interest ever since Andrea had the divorce papers delivered. 

As far as Dean knows, Benny still hasn't signed them.

Seeking refuge from the shouting, Dean made a quick exit onto the balcony and fished around in his jeans until he found the pack of Camels there. It's a soft one, nearly flat from being stuffed up in his pocket, and only had three cigarettes left — light and menthol, because his throat has enough shit to deal with due to his day job.

Stretched out below him, Central Park looks like one of those little picturesque Christmas Villages done up in department stores, clumpy white snow cut by barren trunks of trees and long, winding lines of mud and asphalt. People scurry along the paths, wrapped up in bright, puffy coats, thick scarves, and topped off with knitted hats. The bustle of the city is muted by the cold, and his breath mists thick as smoke without the aid of the cigarette.

The sliding door rolls open, letting out the music drift out. Someone's turned it up enough to mostly drown out Kevin, his cursing muted beneath the somber and yet uplifting _it's more than a feeling, when I hear that old song they used to play_. Dean closes his eyes. 

"That's stupid," Charlie reminds him, on cue, and Dean opens his eyes to roll them. He appreciates it, as much as it annoys him. She never needles, just inserts it like a pop-up Surgeon General's Warning the moment he dips his head to meet the lighter. "I bet violin boy doesn't smoke."

"Is that his stage name, now?" he asks, taking a long drag. _Cute_ isn't really the right word, anyway — beautiful, maybe, in the same way that tree frogs and cuttlefish are; deadly if you got too close.

"I dunno, _angel of Thursday_ has a nice ring to it," Charlie says, draping her arms over the balcony. She leans in to leech some body warmth, not shying away in spite of the smoke. She rolls her eyes when he squints at her. "Castiel, y'know? _I_ asked, because I was socialized as a child."

Dean blows smoke out of his nose, humming noncommittally. He watches a couple of kids ride down a steep hill using trash can lids, screeching as they crash at the bottom in a pile of limbs. "I dunno if he can handle it." 

"The gig," Charlie says, slowly, "or your melodrama?"

"You're not nearly as cute as you think you are."

The grin she gives him _is_ pretty cute, but Dean's developed an immunity over the years. "But _Castiel_ is." 

"Don't you have a raid or something you're supposed to be doing?"

"I live a life of opulence, I do what I want," she sing-songs, but relents and pushes off the railing. "Just do us all a favor and don't, you know," she makes some wavy-hand motion that does not lend any clarity to her statement whatsoever, "do that thing you do with indecision until the opportunity passes. W-A-S-D, dude. You gotta make a move." 

"I have no idea what you just said," Dean calls after her.

"Shit or get off the pot!"

And yeah, alright, _that_ one he understands. 

+

"I won't say that I am sympathetic because I honestly don't care," Balthazar says, slinging an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. "But I understand your dilemma. It all comes down to how much you want first chair, and ultimately how much you want to keep that ridiculously rare fiddle of yours." 

Castiel shudders, and not from the cold. "Not _that_ badly."

"I should hope not," Balthazar, seemingly unconcerned that one of his clients is considering quitting his career, and losing his five percent. "Marv's... Well, he's fairly awful in every conceivable way aside from his bank account, I'll give you that. But this is why God invented brandy."

It's brisk in the park, and there's tourists and people hurrying home from work and mothers pushing strollers. Some kid nearly runs into a dog with his bike, and Castiel watches it chase him across the snow-covered fields. "There isn't enough brandy in all of France, bank account be damned."

"Are you sure? Because they've got a _lot_ of — " He mercifully stops when he sees the look Castiel is giving him, rolls his eyes in a _have it your way_ gesture. He keeps his arm looped around Castiel's shoulders, though. Balthazar does it to annoy him, because Castiel is not a fucking possession. That's sort of the whole _point_. "Could be worse. At least you're not stuck with Zachariah."

This much is true, although Meg can handle herself and if Zachariah ever got within spitting distance she would probably castrate him with one of her viola strings. Didn't stop him from being a complete fucking douchebag at a distance, though. "I'll gladly serenade his entire Tea-Party clubhouse if that's an option."

"Cassie, darling, it's quite simple; either man up and bend over, or," Balthazar says, callous as always, "and I know this isn't really your style — take a risk. Perhaps then you can afford your own Stradivarius."

Castiel sighs, because even if it's that simple, it's not as if he can force Marv to sell the _Hammer_. "Isn't it part of your job to find another option that doesn't involve putting my entire career in jeopardy?"

"That door closed in your face the moment you crawled out of the closet. Zachariah won't go near you. It's very far left, you know, being a shirtlifter, and people on that side of the room don't have deep pockets. The only reason Marv took you on is because he, too, is a deviant; he can afford to be. You either have enough money that no one cares, or you find someone with it to, ah, _have your back_, as it were."

Castiel rolls his eyes at the innuendo and tries to shrug Balthazar off. "I hate politics."

"Growing up in your household? I'm shocked."

Balthazar doesn't go easily — he's bigger, and knows it, and smirks a little when Castiel shoves at him until his arm falls back to his side. Castiel glares at him. "What if it was Inias?"

Balthazar looks entirely nonplussed, but his smile isn't friendly anymore. "Oh, I'd eviscerate him, as he well knows."

"I don't think it's a serious offer." Castiel opts for changing the subject because Balthazar is barely tolerable in a good mood; pissed off, he's more toxic than a nuclear waste disposal site. The fact that he's also Castiel's best friend makes Castiel question his life choices. "He could literally have anyone in the world who knows how to play a guitar. Why me?"

Balthazar shrugs. "Perhaps those TMZ rumors were true after all."

Before Castiel can say anything about that, Balthazar's phone pings, and Castiel watches his breath mist while he checks the text. He raises an eyebrow, glances at Castiel, then swipes something back before passing it over. "Speak of the Devil."

Castiel sighs heavily, leaning his weight against his friend, agent, mutual asshole. Whatever. Balthazar takes the weight, humming in amusement when Castiel mutters, "Why do I bother having my own phone at all?"

Private  
  
**Dean:** where is he?  
  
**Balthazar:** With me.  
  
**Dean:** put him on  
  


Castiel briefly considers throwing Balthazar's iPhone in the fountain.

Private  
  
**Castiel: **What?  
  
**Dean: **still in manhattan?  
  
**Castiel: **Yes.  
  
**Dean: **where  
  


Castiel thinks if this had been a phone call, it would have been completed by now. He isn't entirely sure why he's entertaining this, but he can't see the harm in answering.

Private  
  
**Castiel: **The park. Near 97th. Why?  
  
**Dean: **6 w 66th, 2hrs  
  


Annoyance flares, causing Castiel to briefly forget exactly who he's texting, and suffers a momentary lapse.

Private  
  
**Castiel: **Business or pleasure?  
  


The reply takes half a beat longer than the others.

Private  
  
**Dean: **both  
  


"I suppose that answers that," Balthazar says, taking back the phone. "Oh, don't look so distraught. It's not like the _Hammer _was ever yours in the first place." Castiel scowls, because even if Balthazar is right, doesn't mean Castiel has to like it. 

When Castiel says nothing, Balthazar wraps his arm back around Castiel's shoulder and drags him along the path. "And besides, if this one also just wants to fuck you, at least he's easier on the eyes."

+

Number 6 West 66th St is an anonymous brick building among a dozen other anonymous brick buildings. There's no signs of life Castiel can see, aside from the usual to-and-fro common on any street in New York. It's just after eight and pitch dark aside from the streetlamps and passing headlights, but Castiel can just make out the "666" stamped above the door.

The door swings open without resistance and reveals a thin staircase made out of painted-black wood that leads down to a basement level. There's light and noise at the bottom, but he pauses to read the sign hanging over his head mid-way down that proclaims: _Welcome to Purgatory_.

The bar looks like a speakeasy, or a basement someone turned into a replica of one; there's a mix of booths and tables scattered around the place all crafted in deep mahogany wood, and a long, black-lacquered L-shaped bar cluttered with padded stools. Old rock is playing softly on the speakers attached to the ceiling supports, _seasons don't fear the reaper, nor do the wind, the sun or the rain_ just loud enough to make the murmur of conversation intelligible. Despite its rather anonymous front, the place is packed, and it takes Castiel a moment to pick Dean out of the crowd.

It could be because this time Dean is wearing clothes; grey jeans that actually look as old as the tears in the knees suggest, a white, long-sleeved shirt with a zeppelin on it, and a thick leather jacket hung over the back of his stool. He doesn't look up as Castiel makes his way over; he's talking to the severe-looking barman, who's idly toweling glasses and looks generally unimpressed with his surroundings.

Castiel manages to get to the bar without bumping into anyone, but he's pretty sure he's seen at least three A-list actors on the way over, and one girl who is definitely some kind of pop star. If high-profile clientele were the usual here, it certainly explained why there wasn't so much as a _Yelp!_ review for this place. 

The barman pauses in the perpetual glass-drying to look at Castiel, giving him a silent once-over, before Dean turns around and quips, "Violin boy made it."

Castiel slips into the empty stool beside him and places his violin case on the bar. _Always in sight_ — it's either that, or handcuff the damn thing to his wrist. Dean looks at the case and Castiel can see the questions forming, but really isn't in the mood to talk about the _Hammer_. "You going to buy me a drink, or what?"

The barman raises an eyebrow at Dean, who just throws his head back and laughs — a real laugh, not the fake shit he throws around in interviews or on red carpets. Something gnaws uncomfortably on Castiel’s insides and he resists the urge to squirm. "Yeah, sure. Why not. What's your poison?" 

"Scotch. Neat."

"It would be," Dean mumbles and Castiel isn't sure if he was supposed to hear it or not. Dean nods at the barman, who so far hasn't expressed a single human emotion that Castiel can tell. "Keep that whiskey coming, too. And some of those pickle chips."

Castiel almost asks, but it's not important. He takes his scotch and sips it slowly. His tolerance isn't what it used to be, years ago when drinking was a job requirement; he still has to take the train home, it's after dark in mid-town, and he's carrying around a three-million-dollar violin. 

Dean downs two fingers in a single swig, and barely winces as it goes down. Castiel knows, because he's watching his throat as he swallows. "Look," he says, as Castiel watches the barman tip a bottle of whiskey that would cost an entire month's salary into Dean's empty glass, "it's not like a regular job interview, right? You either work, or you don't, and there's not really a way to tell without giving it a go."

"I'm not an intern," Castiel says, and considers his scotch. "I don't work for free. I can't just put the Philharmonic on hold just to go for a test drive. If I leave, I lose my seat."

"Is that all you lose?"

Dean's looking at the case, which is made of some lightweight composite Castiel can't pronounce. It's bulletproof, fireproof, tamper proof, watertight, and can withstand crushing up to ten thousand pounds. It has its own humidity sensors, two separate GPS locators, and a biometric lock that only three people can access; Castiel is one of them.

It's still compact, though. Violins are much smaller than people seem to realize. He touches the square plate beside the catch and the locks click open. Dean will eventually ask and he at least might appreciate it for what it is, and he's certainly not touching it after getting any pickle chips.

The interior of the case is very simple folded blue silk, which brings out the amber spruce-and-maple body. It looks darker in the dim light of the bar, and Castiel takes note on how Dean slides his drink further to his right before tilting his head in question. 

Castiel shrugs. "You break it, you buy it."

"Would I live long enough to cut that check?" Dean says and Christ, is Castiel that easy to read? It looks like he's going to say something else, and Castiel just waits for the _you're only letting me touch it because that check would clear, right?_ before he snaps the case closed on Dean's fingers, but it never comes. 

Castiel suffers a mild anxiety attack while Dean turns the instrument over in his hands. It seemed harmless enough, but as Castiel watches Dean's fingers rove over the scroll and the waist he feels the panic build inside his chest as rapidly as a collapsing dam; those hands are used to beat-up acoustics and Les Pauls and microphones — and guns and drugs and groupies — not priceless, irreplaceable seventeenth century works of art.

Dean holds it up a little higher and Castiel's heart briefly tries to jump ship out of this throat; Dean just tilts it and Castiel relaxes a fraction. Dean's just squinting into the f-holes, trying to see the inscription there. 

_Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis/Faciebat Anno 1707_. Castiel knows it by heart.

The man with the slick black hair is still standing silent on the other side of the bar, and for the first time since Castiel arrived, he looks interested, but says nothing as Dean places the _Hammer _back in its case, like it had never left, and gently closes the lid. 

"Well," Dean says, going for his re-filled whiskey, "I don't know if I can compete with that, but you couldn't take it on stage, anyway."

_No shit_, Castiel thinks, before he realizes what Dean said. 

Dean sees his expression and looks amused. "Have you ever actually been to a show?"

Castiel has never been to a concert in his life that he wasn't playing in. "No."

"Well, before you make any drastic decisions," the way he says _drastic_ has Castiel taking a long hit of scotch, "maybe you should see what you're getting into." He fishes something out of a back pocket, two small badges on a black lanyard, and hands them over. There's the band logo in gold (SPN spelled out beneath the flaming pentagram) and an official seal that has some hologram nonsense, and simply says ALL ACCESS.

"That'll get you and a guest through all the right doors. We're not on until 10, so," Dean shrugs, like being the closing act for a multi-artist, multi-million dollar benefit concert at _Madison Square Gardens_ is no big deal, "show up whenever. If you want. Or, I don't know, sell them on Craigslist. Just not to a fucking reporter, okay?"

Dean's momentarily distracted by the arrival of a small platter of what Castiel assumes are pickle chips. He pulls his eyes away from Dean licking the salt off his fingers and turns the passes over in his hands. Castiel has no intention of selling them, even if he doesn't go, but briefly considers what they'd be worth before slipping them into a coat pocket.

"Say I do this," he says, and studies his empty glass as the barman refills it, "I don't even know what's next. I assume I'll have to break my lease, among other things."

"If you're breaching contract, we can cover that," Dean says, because apparently it doesn't matter how much that'll cost. Castiel doesn't mention the mile-long list of people that will gladly take his place, slipping into his seat and occupying his space like he never existed at all. Dean's almost finished the platter already and Castiel is thankful for that, at least, so he'll stop sucking on his fingers. "Same with your lease, if you can't get someone to take it over, but it's New York, so." So, yeah, not really a problem. "We don't really settle, not before going on tour. There's a place we practice and basically live at because it's easier than renting a studio, but you should get used to the idea of living out of one bag and jumping timezones."

Since moving here, Castiel hasn't even bothered upgrading apartments even though he can technically afford to. He's a creature of habit and easily annoyed by change. Based on that alone, he should have his decision.

But he also hates the politics, that he's spent four years as second chair even though he _knows_ he's earned (and more than good enough for) first. He hates the fact that the only reason he gets to play on a Stradivarius is because some perverted investor with too much trust-fund money wants to get in his pants, and will hold the violin and his career hostage until he gives in. He's been thinking about just getting it over with, because he doesn't really have another option, just saying _yes_ and hoping it's only the one time and then he'll be free to just play and play until he's blocked it out.

_Just the one time_. He can hear Balthazar laughing at him from condo in Jersey. Once Castiel opens that door, he's screwed. Literally.

And here is Dean Winchester, of all people, giving him another option.

Dean's lighting up a cigarette and Castiel waits for someone to point out the No Smoking sign on the wall next to the liquor license. "That's unintelligent," Castiel feels obligated to point out, "what with how you make a living." 

Dean laughs again, white smoke curling out of his nose and lips, and ends up coughing a little. "_Fuck me_. No wonder Charlie likes you." 

Castiel considers what Dean would sound like if he said _fuck me_ in another tone, just as breathless and rough but for an entirely different reason, because he hates himself. If he can barely stand being stuck on a barstool next to Dean for ten minutes, how the hell is going to stand being in the same studio, the same stage, the same hotel suite without losing his mind? 

Well, surely some of their groupies are hot guys. 

"It's not all sex and glamor, just in case you're an idiot," Dean says, blowing smoke out his nostrils. It shouldn't be attractive, but Castiel is pretty sure Dean could strut around in an orange corduroy suit and manage to make it attractive. "Ash is out of his mind half the time on one thing or another, Benny's relationship status is the _definition_ of 'it's complicated', and the kids," Dean pauses, and smiles a little, "they're alright, mostly, so long as they have an internet connection and we don't run out of Mountain Dew. But they're young enough that bouncing from LA to Dubai doesn't tank their schedule, and the press doesn't really focus on drums or keyboards. It doesn't matter that without Charlie keeping a beat this whole thing would fall apart. They're just background. You're stepping up to the front line."

"I'm not afraid of the stage," Castiel says. He's done solos for thousands of people before, because even first chairs get sick sometimes. And it's not like he hasn't been surrounded by public figures his entire life, what with his family, but he doesn't have the right blood-alcohol ratio for that conversation. Yet. "And I'm not afraid of the press, either." 

Dean raises an eyebrow at that. "What _are_ you scared of?" 

_You_, Castiel thinks, but that's not strictly true. He's scared of losing everything and starting over, _again_. He doesn't have the mental stability nor the stamina for that, and certainly not the funds. It took three years of waiting to get into an orchestra that's respected _worldwide_, and he's spent the last four years putting up with private shows and thinly veiled innuendos. He's scared of losing what's become an extension of his own arm, something that was never his in the first place, something that's worth all the strings attached because of the strings he has the honor of making sing. 

Dean sees him eyeing the case and nods at the barman, who fills up his again-empty scotch. Castiel should lay off, because he hasn't eaten since this morning and can already feel it blurring the edge of his vision. 

He downs it all like a shot. 

Dean smiles briefly, and Castiel would take another shot just to see him do it again. "That's more like it."

Castiel winces as the burn settles in his throat. "Has anyone bothered to tell you that you're kind of an asshole?" 

Dean laughs again and, fuck, Castiel is not touching the scotch the barman is refilling because he's about one drink short of inviting this asshole home, consequences be damned. "That isn't in the band? Not in a while, no," Dean admits. "Look, the tab's covered, so uh, knock yourself out. I'll either see you on Friday, or I won't. Later, _Castiel_."

He slips off the stool and into the leather jacket and Castiel hates how his eyes immediately drift down to his waist to see the flash of skin at his hips, like he hasn't already seen everything and then some, like the images aren't still burned into his mind like some sort of psychological torture. 

Castiel doesn't watch him go. He does have another shot, though. 

+

"I hate every single one of you in ways that are _unquantifiable._" 

Nobody bothers with a response; they all know it's rhetorical, because on a good day Kevin can just barely stand to be in the same room as Dean without rolling his eyes. The fact that the reason Kevin has to deal with the rewiring of MSG in less than two days (and, since they're sharing said stage with four other artists, has to _coordinate with four other fucking teams, Dean_) is not at all Dean's fault means nothing. As soon as Ash suggested changing the set list, Dean's pretty sure Kevin would have plugged himself into an amp if he could've just to make shouting easier. 

"Cain's got a whole different tone, man, and the show'll be better for it," Ash says, eternally reasonable. He strums his fingers against his Strat; it's older than he is, but still pristine, and the eyesore kind of orange that is just obnoxious enough to balance out his mellow personality. He glances at Dean. "_Boom_'s got a nice segue into a long duel."

"Oh, no you don't," Kevin snaps, and Jesus, they'll gang up on Dean if he isn't careful, and he's not sure he'd survive that. "I already have to switch five amps four fucking times and hope nothing goes wrong! In the middle of a fucking show!"

"Shit always goes wrong in the middle of shows," Charlie says. She's eating mint chocolate chip straight out of the tub. And not one of those tiny ones, but the full Costco-size half gallons. Dean would worry, but he's seen that girl put away a twelve-pack of Dew every weekend for a month and never gain so much as a pound because she has the metabolism of a damn locust. "And it'll be six times, actually. They limited us to four so when we do four and the encore it won't keep everyone into overtime."

"Five, with the encore, plus the intro, plus the stretch," Benny adds. "So... midnight, if we're lucky?"

"Assuming Knights don't drag more than half an hour past," Garth agrees.

"_Unquantifiable_," Kevin reminds them. He likes to use big words, sometimes. Dean thinks it's something to do with height compensation. He turns his glares back to Ash. "And I suppose you'll be using the Gibson, too?"

Ash gives him a thumbs up and Kevin throws his hands in the air. "I'm going to just wire the stage to explode, how's that?"

"That'd make one hell of a show-stopper," Ash deadpans, and holds in the grin until Kevin's cursed and slammed the door on his way out. "Really need to get that kid on some good downers, man. He's gonna blow a fuse."

"Or blow the stage," Benny says. He's grinning, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. It gets a little more sincere when Charlie smacks Garth from trying to swipe some ice cream with a spoon and starts chasing him around the room, though. Benny leans against the couch and slings an arm over the back, "You've been awful quiet, brotha."

Dean shrugs. "Been a long day."

"The kid show again?"

"Pretty sure he's older than me."

"I'm older than both 'a you, so."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, he showed."

Benny waits a beat and when Dean doesn't elaborate, Benny cuffs him on the shoulder. "C'mon, let's get outta here for a while. Ash drank all the beer again and the shit they keep in his hotel is like drinking high-class piss."

"Grab me a case while you're out," Ash calls after them. "And some of those little cherries, too!"

Dean brushes Bobby off when he tries to follow them. "Don't call me cryin' when some of those she-devils have you cornered in an alley," he snaps, but lets them go. 

Dean's not too worried about it. In LA, maybe, but New York is popular with public figures for good reason. A baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses are all they need to stay anonymous. 

It's too late for sunglasses, though, so Dean pulls the brim of the hat low while they make their way into the garage, nods at the valet on duty and slips him a few bills. They've stayed here enough they know better than to offer to park his car, but they always keep the wide spot on the end open for him where the office can keep an eye on her. 

It'd be easier to take a cab — even close to midnight on a Wednesday the streets are choked with traffic — but Dean doesn't get to drive her often enough and will take whatever chance he can get. He feels the tension bleed out of his shoulders a little as the rumble of the V8 runs through him, purring over the Bob Seger playing softly on the cassette player. Hell, it's been _weeks _since he last took her out.

Benny waits until they're trapped between three taxi cabs at an intersection on Park Ave before he turns the music down, _come on baby, rock 'n roll never forgets_ fading away under the idling of engine. "Crowley called while you were out," he says, draping an arm over the seatback. "Cain'll be at the studio tomorrow."

They're going to have to go early, Dean knows, because while Cain might be the only person in the world who can hold a candle to Ash when it comes to playing a guitar, they still need to get in as much practice as possible with a complete change to the set list. "He good with the changes?"

"Him and Ash hashed it out. It's not like it's the first time we've had to go out with only a day to get our shit together."

That's true, and Dean isn't really worried about it. Still. "Wish she'd given us a fucking head's up."

Benny doesn't say anything, and Dean glares until some piece of shit hatchback behind them honks indignantly to remind him that the light's green. He feels the tires slip a little as he pulls away and eases on the accelerator. The slush slaps at Baby's sides wetly, and Dean tries not to think about all the salt it's painting along her undersides. "You knew, didn't you?"

"I woulda told ya' if I knew somethin' for sure," Benny says, but keeps his eyes on the road. "But you ain't exactly the easiest on 'em, y'know? Not since Sam left."

"Maybe that's because most of them suck in comparison."

"Ain't their fault they can't live up to the image of him you got," Benny points out — fairly, Dean knows, but it's not _his_ fault Sam left. 

"Jo was good."

"Yeah, well, that ain't nobody's fault but God's, and He don't have to answer to you."

Dean rolls his eyes, and then jacks down the window while they're sitting behind a queue waiting for the right-hand turn. The cars dash through the holes between pedestrians, sometimes so close it makes Dean wince, but the New Yorkers never flinch. 

Benny turns on the heater when Dean lights up, blowing smoke out of the open window. "I dunno, man. This guy, he's — " Dean isn't sure, exactly. It's hard to read this Castiel character, and whatever impressions Dean does have are impossible to put into words. "He's probably the best we can do on short notice. It's not like we haven't already seen most of what's out there."

And that's true enough, after having to fill Sam's spot three times over the same number of years. Most of the good talent was already taken, or too green to step up to the plate. Or worse, wanted in for all the wrong reasons. That was Dean's major problem with Tessa to begin with, and he wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't at _Divine_ right now, signing up with whatever new-agey metal band was in season. 

Dean double parks outside the liquor store. It's a side-street, so the chances of a ticket a slim. That and half of the city streets are perpetually double-parked. There seems to be an honor system among the meter police and the populace that as long as you get gone before a tow-truck could reasonably show up and actually tow you, they'll leave it be.

The night is brisk and but the leather jacket is warm enough over his shirt to stave off the worst of the wind chill. Benny carefully disengages from the car without letting the passenger door connect with the old Honda they're blocking in. "True 'nuff," he agrees, close on Dean's heels as Dean shoulders his way through the door. "But you should trust your instincts. I'd rather settle for second-best than have another Tessa situation right before the tour."

It's already right before the tour, even though the first booked venue isn't until late October. Dean's got one and half songs of a fifteen song album hammered out, and they need that ready to go before they start tour prep. Hell, if Crowley has his way, it'll be released in time for the summer festivals. "It's not just up to me," Dean reminds him, grabbing a massive case of Bud Light for Ash so he'll leave the IPA's Benny's picking out alone. "What's your read on him?"

Benny takes his time picking out a couple of six packs before dropping them into the cart Dean commandeered. They'll be lucky if it all fits in the trunk. Benny stops by the register to grab the requested grenadine and maraschino cherries, too, and grins when he catches Dean's glare.

"Not much," Benny says, flashing an unnecessary ID at the teller before handing over a credit card. "I feel like he's got more talent than anyone's bothered to notice, and he's old enough that it won't go to his head. No, I got this, you get the door." He gathers most of the bags so Dean also pops the trunk, and just in time — Dean can see a meter maid working her way down the street. When Dean closes the lid, Benny's smiling at him. "Kinda comes off as a stuck-up asshole, but honestly? He seems okay dealin' with your special brand of crazy, and that's the best we can hope for."

+

Castiel is on the F-train when he sends off the text. The lockscreen on his phone tells him it's 11:37pm. He tries to justify why he lingered at the bar after Dean left; partly out of indecision, but mostly because the more he drank, the more he ran up Dean's tab. If he's lucky, he'll get home and asleep just in time to hate himself in the morning; in addition to practice, they've also got an evening performance somewhere important.

His phone buzzes a response almost immediately. Castiel sighs and lays his head against the bar he's clinging to, the cold chrome dulling the buzz in his head as he accepts the call. 

"_Who died?_" the voice on the other end of the line demands.

"Nobody died," Castiel says, wincing at the volume of Gabriel's voice. "Why do you always think someone's died?"

"_Whenever you text me after 10 PM it's an emergency. If nobody's dead, then on a scale of you need bail money to Lucy's trying to kidnap you off to conversion camp, how serious is it?_"

"I don't need bail money, and I'm pretty sure he was joking," Castiel deadpans. "I'm fine. Sorry. Something just came up. Are you free Friday night?"

"_No, I'm not, but I can be. As long as we're not going to another black sheet party._"

Castiel closes his eyes and grits out in a rush, "That was an accident and I've already apologized eight thousand times and maybe someday you will stop bringing it up."

He hears a snort on the other end of the line. "_Don't count on it._"

"I have tickets to something," Castiel pursues, wondering just how long he can be vague before his brother picks up on it, "and I'm supposed to bring somebody."

"_What, Marv isn't free?_"

"Sometimes I despise the fact that we're related," Castiel informs him with a groan. 

"_That was cruel, I apologize. I wouldn't wish that asshole on anyone. Well, maybe — _"

"Madison Square Gardens," Castiel interrupts before Gabe can get going. "The concert starts at 7, but — "

"_Woah, redlight. Full stop. The Gardens? _This _Friday, as in basically-tomorrow-Friday?_"

"Yes, yes, sorry, and did you just safeword a conversation?" The old lady across the way is giving Castiel a squinty-eyed glare and he shifts, angling his body in the other direction to watch the dark tunnel flash by outside the windows. "I've got a couple of all access passes for the concert."

"_You have _passes_?_"

"Why do you sound like I just ran over your dog?"

"_How in the hell did you manage to get backstage passes to _Supernatural_?_"

"Well, it's kind of a long — "

"_Cas, _I _can't get those. Whose dick did you have to — oh, you didn't — _"

Castiel curls in around the phone and hisses, "If I won't do it for the _Hammer _you really think I'd sink that low for a concert?"

"_I dunno, have you _seen _Dean Winchester?" _In excruciating detail, Castiel thinks._ "I'm a ladies' man, myself, but I'd suck someone off for backstage to that_."

Cas lets his forehead _thunk_ against the door, and nearly falls onto the platform when they whisk open. He tightens his grip on the violin case as he steps off, and blinks in the harsh light of the subway station before he gets his bearings and heads up the westside stairs. "Like I said, long story. I'll tell you later. Assuming you're coming?"

"_I'll send a car over at 5._"

"But it doesn't start — "

"_If it's a long story, that should give you ample time to fill me in. And for the love of all things unholy, please wear something appropriate. Waistcoats and ties are not suitable attire for rock concerts."_

"How about latex and a leather harness?"

Gabriel's laugh makes Castiel smile, even as he gets to the street level just in time to see his bus pull away from the stop. "_Little brother, I would pay you to wear those._"

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * More Than A Feeling (Boston)
>   * Don't Fear The Reaper (Blue Oyster Cult)
>   * Rock 'N Roll Never Forgets (Sam Morrison Band)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist for Chapter 3](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/716Ego5BJoRAdMawBWtfRo?si=0Vq1RuorQmGRgBNG9Gakig)

**if you wanna rock 'n roll**

* * *

Castiel whisks in through the revolving door to the lobby, still shaking snow off his coat. The grey, bored-looking guard behind the desk glances up, and that's all the recognition Castiel is given before the man goes back to scrolling through his phone. The lock on the elevator buzzes the moment Castiel reaches it and he jabs the number with his elbow.

Thirty seconds later, it neatly deposits Castiel on the 22nd floor with an incessantly cheerful chime into a maze of skinny white hallways adorned with tasteless, abstract artwork that likely cost more than his apartment in Chelsea. He winds a familiar path through the alternatively bright-lit and dark halls towards the set, the murmur of the live audience growing louder with every step.

_Shootin' Straight with Gabriel Novak_ is plastered in huge, serif letters on the wall behind the stands. Gabriel sits at a slick, metal-and-mahogany desk while his guest occupies one of the comfy armchairs beside it. Looks like they're past the political rundown; the show is in the last segment, interviewing some middle-aged movie star who has gone from nobody to A-list in the span of a single blockbuster. Castiel can't remember his name, and isn't interested enough to ask. He lingers by the edge of the set for a while, watching Gabriel's animated antics with a small smile.

"If you got famous young," Gabriel is asking, "would it have messed with you?"

"Oh, yeah," the guy replies with a laugh. "Definitely. Hell, yeah. I mean, it messes with you regardless, but I feel bad for people who get famous really young. It's best to make the most of your mistakes in relative obscurity. Otherwise, y'know, you can really be defined by all the stupid shit you do when you're a kid. I mean, my wife, she's — yeah, big movie star, right? It was nice to see how people treated her, a good experience for me, especially coming into the last few years. Taught me some important lessons. I was able to see that you gotta nurture the relationships with the people who'll call you on your bullshit, the people who would have you over for dinner if you were — if I were still a coupon salesman, or a waiter or — "

"Wait, hold on. You were a _coupon_ salesman?"

"Yeah, I was a coupon salesman!"

"How do you sell coupons? Isn't the nature of a coupon that you give them away for free?"

The actor and the audience laugh together. "I was a door-to-door salesman for about, uh, two years? And it was really more promotions, like, it was twenty bucks and you could get, uh, oil changes for your car."

"Gimme your approach."

Without missing a beat, the guy puts on a wicked grin and leans in. Castiel has to admit he is _extraordinarily _attractive when he smiles that way. "Hey, how you doin'?"

"I'm okay," Gabriel plays along. "Please don't, I — look, the kids are in the bath, and I — "

"Fantastic. Listen, I'm from Meineke, they sent us over, we're supposed to give these uh, oil changes out to people. Here you go."

"'Kay, um — " 

"Yeah, it's four oil changes. Twenty bucks. Just fill this out. Keep it in your glove box."

"Oh, okay. I'll let you know — "

"No, you gotta do it — I only have about twenty of these to give out. So you just fill this card out, and we'll settle the twenty today, cash, check or credit card — "

"I will call the police if you don't get off my porch right now."

"Oh, do it!" The guy flashes another wide grin and Castiel is temporarily blinded by the whiteness of his teeth. "Call the police, they have a lot of cars!"

Gabriel's laughing so hard he's wiping his eyes and Castiel wanders to the green room, helping himself to a glass of wine. He idly swipes through his iPhone, and makes the mistake of searching out the #MSG hashtag . He scrolls through tweet after tweet of dark, blurry photos of the twenty-thousand people waiting in line outside. Most of them are dressed in black and leather jackets with wild hair, and some women braving the cold in less, shivering and huddling together like penguins, rotating who's on the outside to keep out the cold. The tweets are littered with more hashtags like #RockOnNYC, #KoH, #SPN, #HailLadyheart, #TheNewGTOs. There's a few with the tagline #AudiNos, and Castiel wonders why that phrase looks so familiar.

He looks up with the door smacks open on its hinges some time later. "Oh, _here_ you are," Gabriel exclaims, as if he didn't know exactly where to find his brother. "Sorry, interview went a little long. You wanna meet him?"

Castiel has met enough celebrities this week to last him a lifetime. "Not particularly."

Gabriel cocks an eyebrow. "You know how many people would kill for five minutes with this guy?"

Castiel pours himself another glass of merlot. "Let the poor guy go home to his wife."

"You're no fun anymore." Gabriel disappears down the hall and leaves the door open. 

Castiel heaves a sigh and follows after him, but takes his wine. A large, shiny black SUV is waiting for them outside the lobby, and Castiel ducks his head and scurries into it while Gabriel lingers, taking selfies and signing a few autographs for fans waiting out on the street.

Gabriel blows a kiss out the door before pulling it closed, collapsing into the seat beside him. He casts a sidelong glance at Castiel's trench coat as the driver pulls the truck into traffic. "You're wearing a suit under that, aren't you?"

Castiel is, but to be fair, the only other articles of clothing he owns are his old uniform and a worn pair of sweatpants. "_You're_ in a suit."

"We're stopping by my place. Figured we should eat before getting absolutely wasted, and give me some time to dress you in something appropriate." He scrolls through his phone and types out a message before locking it, slipping it away into a pocket. "So, cowboy, you gonna tell me how you got 'em, or do I have to guess?"

Castiel buries himself in his wine and goes through the whole sordid story while they make the short trip to Gabriel's place, carefully expunging the excessive amounts of nudity. Gabriel doesn't interrupt, producing jeans that fit Castiel from nowhere and a sky blue button-down that's surprisingly normal-looking. By the time Castiel has finished getting dressed and relaying the tale, Gabriel has showered, changed into jeans and an old leather jacket, and they've mostly finished dinner.

New York glitters outside the penthouse windows, sharp metal edges blunted by a fresh layer of snow. It's quiet inside the apartment, but Castiel knows if they step outside on the balcony they'll be assaulted by a cacophony of car horns and idle chatter that make up the city's heartbeat.

Castiel paces the length of the window, watching snow flurry between the buildings like confetti. "I understand that they have an album due and a tour coming up and need to fill the spot as soon as possible, but I can't just uproot my life on a few days notice."

Gabriel's watching him quietly from the couch, expression carefully neutral, and Castiel feels his hackles rise. A quiet Gabriel is often prelude to some kind of scheme, and the only person who fairs well from those is Gabriel. "What?"

"What?" Gabriel repeats, leaping to his feet. He's looking at Castiel like Castiel's just declared he's engaged to a lovely woman, moving into an old Brownstone and taking up investment banking like Mother always wanted him to. "What d'you mean _what_?" He places two heavy hands on Castiel's shoulders, forcing him to halt. "Are you _high_? You can't be this stupid. I _know_ you're not this stupid. I will call Zar right now and have him — "

"Don't," Castiel interrupts, catching Gabriel's wirst as he moves to pull out his phone and do just that. "Don't oversimplify this. It's not just quitting my job, I'd be," Castiel pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's been dealing with the domino effect of what he's considering like a responsible adult by quietly refusing to think about it. "I'd have to sell my apartment."

Gabriel sags into him and emits groan that sounds like it crawled one-handed up a ladder from some soul-deep sense of disappointment. Castiel shoves him off.

"Let me get this straight." Gabriel steps back to grab his drink off the table, and draws the last of his Chai iced tea noisily through the straw. "You hate your job, you hate your boss, you hate the toddler that lives in the unit above you — "

"That child is dangerously obese for being so hyperactive," Castiel mutters.

" — and Dean Winchester drops an offer in your lap to be _an actual fucking rock star_, and you're worried about selling your apartment_?_"

"I don't hate my job," Castiel insists. "I hate the politics. I hate _Marv_."

"Politics are part of your job, and so is the creep," Gabriel says, because the Novak's don't have a sympathy gene. "Cas, if there is _ever _going to be a time you heed my advice, _now _is that time. Take the job. Buy your own damn violin."

Castiel sinks into the couch, willing the cushions to swallow him up. "I don't care about the money."

"Everybody cares about the money," Gabriel says, grabbing Castiel by one wrist and pulling him back to his feet. "Anyone who denies it is lying, or selling something." He slings an arm over Castiel's shoulder and leads him towards the door. "And let's be honest, little brother, you'd make a shitty coupon salesman."

+

The line of tour buses spill out into the avenue like beached whales, shiny husks glittering beneath the stadium lights. They're dark inside aside from a single illuminated cab, and Castiel wonders how the driver manages to nap with all the ambient noise around them. A few others huddle between the buses, looking for shelter from the cold to grab a smoke. The black SUV glides past the line of them silently, rolling to a halt at the service entrance to the stadium. A gust of wind assaults them as Gabriel swings open the door and hops out, reaching back in to drag Castiel out by his wrist when he doesn't follow.

A short ride in a noisy service elevator later, Castiel is lost in a maze of endless concrete hallways, linoleum floors and closed doors. Some stretches are empty, eerie in the way they might be haunted, and some are so full of people that Castiel can't hear himself think over the buzz of conversation. Someone shouts to his left, another is yelling into a walkie-talkie to his right, and at one point he's caught between so many bodies he feels like he's going to suffocate.

"C'mon, champ. This way," Gabriel says, and drags him along.

Castiel lets him lead. Gabriel acts like a compass, so well-practiced at navigating this kind of chaos that he flows through the endless stream of people like a salmon heading upriver, Castiel safe in his wake. They show their passes at the back entrance, at the elevator, the entryway beyond. Again at another intersection of hallways, a set of doors leading deeper beneath the bowels of the epicenter, and again at some skinny entryway that feeds deep into the heart of the noise. It feels as if they're ascending a higher order of heaven with each checkpoint they slither through.

Or maybe descending further into the deepest circles of Hell. The decor could swing either way.

He follows Gabriel down a wide staircase and through a heavy set of double-doors that open into a huge T-section, painted-over cinder block walls and a black floor, sticky underfoot and crisscrossed with scuff marks. The doors across from them are closed, as are the doors to his left; to their right is a large black curtain that is in constant motion of people coming and going. Castiel catches a glimpse as a pair of staffers push through; a long tunnel that rises in a gentle slope, deep, undulating reds, the bright flash of a spotlight, the corner of a flown LED screen broadcasting a shower of sparks. 

Castiel realizes that they're standing in what amounts to the crossover just behind the stage. Madison Square Gardens was a designed as stadium at its foundation, and the muted racket coming from the ceiling are people seated behind the setup, high up in the cheap seats, willing to watch the concert from behind just for the bragging right of _we were there_.

The cacophony from the crowd and the show is deafening; the amped-up bass from the stage a living, physical pulse, the air itself shuddering as someone begins to shred on an electric guitar onstage. Castiel turns back from the curtain, wondering if it's considered bad taste to ask for earplugs until he hears another noise, louder than the music, a deep, echoing _pop_ that booms out over everything else and makes his head whip back around. 

Castiel's heard about people bringing guns to concerts. Usually the low-security outdoor music festivals, though, not massive venues like this where there's guards at every entrance searching people's bags. 

"Woman's a goddamn psychopath."

Castiel turns again to find himself looking up a guy that wouldn't look out of place dressed in leather and straddling a Harley. Maybe he's stashed the leather jacket; he's wearing a dark henley, sleeves rolled up, exposing a couple of tattoos. A large skull with crossed-rifles catches Castiel's eye, _SUA SPONTE_ written in bold text beneath the emblem. So he was Army, then; an uneducated bullet sponge that put in his bare minimum and got lucky with a band that went big.

"It's probably a blank," he goes on. Castiel raises his eyebrows, and the man shrugs. "Abaddon feels like she has to step it up ever since the _Knights _started opening for us instead of the other way around."

The only reason Castiel puts a name to the face is thanks to the two-minute glance at the band's wikipedia page on the way over here. "Benjamin, right?"

"Benny," Benjamin corrects. "Was startin' to worry you weren't gonna show." He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Ash thought you'd been eaten by the groupies."

Castiel doesn't remember seeing any groupies, but then again, they passed through so many people, it's quite possible he missed them. It's less hectic in this alcove of noise; Charlie and Garth bent deep in conversation over a laptop in the corner, Ash laid out on a couple of amps and snoring, and mostly people working with their radios clipped to their belts as they spoke rapid-fire into headsets. A few waiters are offering drinks to whoever reaches out to take them, and it doesn't look like anybody is checking for ID. 

He can't see Dean anywhere.

"Dean's around," Benny supplies, before Castiel can ask. 

Castiel hopes so, otherwise the twenty-thousand or so people in the audience are going to be upset. "Suppose someone has to keep the groupies company." 

Benny makes an unattractive snort that Castiel takes for a laugh cut short. "Nah, he likes to save his energy for the show, not all the hassle before one. Tanks his head. He'll come out when he's ready."

Castiel tries to imagine Dean Winchester, rockstar extraordinaire, as a bit of an introvert, and fails. Benny's eyes land on Gabriel, and Castiel remembers his manners. "My brother, Gabriel. This is — "

"Benny Lafitte, bass guitar, war hero," Gabriel supplies for him, because of course he knows who it is. He holds out a hand. "Pleasure. Thanks for your service."

"You're welcome." Benny shakes his hand and gives Gabriel the first genuine smile Castiel's seen. "You look familiar."

"I just have one of those faces," Gabriel replies without missing a beat, and flashes a smirk. "Bit of a nuthouse around here, isn't it?"

"It's not usually this bad, but things get crazy when multiple bands are sharing a stage." Benny shrugs. "_Ladyheart_'s roadies are still cleaning house, _Knights_' are getting a jump start, and ours are about to start the switch." He eyes Castiel, and lowers his voice. "We can put you guys in an empty suite if this is a little intense for you," he offers. 

"I'm fine," Castiel says. He's flown on in frenzied dogfights down to the last drop of fuel, and this grunt thinks he can't handle the clusterfuck of stage crews? "I just don't know where I'm supposed to be."

"Wherever you want, brother." Benny gives him a smile, and Castiel is probably imagining the condescension in his tone, but it still manifests a bitter taste on his tongue. "Sort of the point, to see if this is something you can dig. Just don't wander out on stage unless you wanna get used as a prop."

Gabriel's eyes dart to the stage entrance, and Castiel latches on to his elbow. "We'll manage."

"Alright, man. You need anything, just ask. Someone'll find it for you."

A voice calls his name and just like that, Benny fades away, lost in the ever-moving gaggle of bodies and leaving Castiel with only his brother for company.

"Don't order off the menu," Gabriel stage-whispers in his ear. Then his eyes light up. "Think they can round us up a masseuse?"

+

_"On a scale from one to ten, how drunk are you?"_

Dean squints at the ceiling. "Depends on your definition of one and ten."

_"One being you'll let me drive the Impala, ten being that time you thought Marie was Dora the Explorer and demanded to know how she got out of the TV."_

Dean winces. "She _does _have an uncanny resemblance," he says in his own defense. Sam's too quiet on the other end of the line, and Dean sighs. The floor's stone cold against his back, but his body feels too heavy to move. "Five. Six, if I finish the bottle."

_"Don't. Donna's on her way with coffee._"

"Can you tell her to bring me an eight ball, too?"

Sam ignores the jibe with a long-suffering sigh. _"Do the world a favor and drink it."_

"Yeah, yeah, _Mom_," Dean grouses. "Tell Bobby I can have my gun back."

_"You can have it back when Tessa crosses state lines,"_ Sam says. _"Preferably into Canada."_

Dean wonders when the hell Sam started making the rules, and only realizes he's asked aloud when Sam answers, _"Since you put me on retainer, jerk."_

"Bitch," Dean replies automatically. "C'mon, Sammy. It's not like we've never gotten shitfaced before going out."

_"That was also your fault,"_ Sam points out, of course. It was, but that isn't the point. _"And I'm pretty sure projectile vomiting onstage at some dive bar in Brooklyn doesn't really compare to doing it at full house in Madison Square Gardens."_

Dean hears thunder and is confused for a split second before he realizes someone's just hammering on the door. "Pretty sure that was an eleven," Dean says into the phone, grunting as he sits up. The little storage closet he's claimed as his own doesn't spin, just tilts a little before settling back down. "It's unlocked!"

Donna peeks around the door, "You decent?"

_"Arguably,"_ Sam mutters on the other line.

"Hanging up on you now," Dean informs him, and does. He doesn't protest when Donna cheerfully removes the bottle of Jack Daniels and replaces it with a coffee as tall as her forearm. "Thanks."

"Oh ya, you bet'cha." She sits cross legged beside him until he gives in and takes a sip. It's dark and bitter, kind of like his mood, so he drinks some more. "You got ten before they go up, maybe fifteen before they need ya up front." She sips at her own cup and blinks up at the ceiling, thoughtful. "I can accidentally unplug a few things and buy you another five."

Dean appreciates the gesture; Kevin's wrath isn't one to risk lightly. "I'm all right."

"Ya-huh, sure ya are." She ruffles his hair and he leans into it, tipping a bit as she stands back up. "Oh, and you owe me ten bucks." She grins when he blinks up at her. "Your violin boy showed."

+

They haven't been here ten minutes, and Castiel has already misplaced his brother. 

Gabriel swore up, down, and sideways he wasn't going to ask for a masseuse or anything worse, that he only wanted a beer. Castiel watched him disappear into the gaggle of staffers with a growing sense of trepidation; the amount of trouble Gabriel can get up to unsupervised can't be quantified in words. Castiel wonders if Gabriel's driver will take him home if he shows up alone.

The lights shine brighter as the noise onstage fades from rock-n-roll-bordering-on-death-metal to the incessant roar of the audience beyond. Moments later, the massive black curtain is unceremoniously yanked aside and people dressed in shirts proclaiming STAFF and SECURITY begin scuttling up and down the tunnel, carrying clipboards and rolling dollies, loaded with amps and cables and dissected parts of drum sets. Castiel glances at his watch, idly curious how long the switch will take; orchestras use a limited amount of electronics depending on what instruments are performing, but the setup and teardown could take hours. 

Judging by the incessant roar of the crowd outside, they have about ten minutes before it starts rioting.

The river of people on the ramp break like water against the bow of a ship as the previous band descends. The men are mostly dressed in black and Castiel couldn't tell them apart if he tried, save for one. Cain is more infamous than all the bands combined, as much by his long, wild grey hair as the guitar solos that kept his band at the top of the charts through most of Castiel's formative years. 

The crews scatter further as the last member descends, a tall woman with long, flaming red hair, boasting the kind of body often seen on pin-up posters, and beautiful in a way that reminds Castiel of movie stars on red carpets. She's wearing what amounts to a black bustier and thigh-high, high-heeled boots, and not much else. The strip of fabric acting as a skirt around her hips features a bullet belt made out of what looks like M60 rounds. Tucked into the belt is a massive, long-barrel revolver.

Piercing blue eyes sweep right over Castiel, apparently gauging him unworthy of their attention. She stalks past in a flash of leather and wavy red hair, heels clicking loudly against the floor.

Castiel takes advantage of the darkness and wanders up the ramp, keeping close to the wall to avoid being run over by dollies moving to-and-fro. He can hear a familiar voice shouting "No, you idiot, he's opening with the strat!" and flattens himself against the wall as the little Asian storm scurries past, cables in hand, still cursing. 

There's people above him, behind him, all around him — the seats in the stadium wrap around three-sixty, even directly behind the stage. There's sets of stairs on either side of the platform and a massive LED screen acting as a backing. Scaffolding surrounds the stage on all corners, supporting lights and amps and literal miles worth of wires and cables connecting them all together.

The stage itself is a raised rectangle, high as his chest, covered in shade while staffers simultaneously break everything down and build it back up. The house lights are on, though, and some of the people take advantage of the break, moving towards the exits looking for beer or bathrooms or both. Most of the crowd remains where they are, and a huge surge pushes towards the apron of the stage, crammed tightly together like Black Friday shoppers outside a department store two minutes to midnight.

Nobody among the staff or the audience seem to notice him; Castiel is just another unknown face among thousands, and he's fine with that. He knows if he accepts Dean's ridiculous offer that will no longer be the case, but for now he's content in the relative ambiguity. It's why he really doesn't mind that Michael won't answer his calls any more, or how Ana lost his number, or how Luke pretends he doesn't exist. He never wanted in the spotlight like everyone _else_ in his family, but this...the implications of the role are too much for Castiel to concentrate on. He watches the crews transform the set instead, swarming over the stage like ants, seamlessly consuming and building something new.

A rack of guitars rattles past, and Castiel spots a neon-orange Stratocaster and a double-necked Gibson as one stagehand lifts them out and hands them up, one at a time, to another waiting on the stage. A set of glittering drums goes up next, each piece a different color of the rainbow, passed hand-to-hand along a line, disappearing over the edge of the platform and out of view.

Castiel is so enthralled with the precise, practiced movements of the crew he doesn't notice he has company until Charlie punches him in the arm. "Hey, angel. Fancy meeting you here."

Her hair is loosely braided down the center of her head, left undone at the end to fly askew as it pleases. She's wearing neon pink jeans and a black racerback that proclaims in huge letters _I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE_ on the chest. A set of drumsticks are stuck in her back pocket. 

"I don't suppose you wanna start today. Dean's about to kill Cain. Or the other way around. I can't really tell with those two," she chatters on, leaning against the stage beside him.

That's news to Castiel. "I thought Cain was doing him a favor."

"Doesn't mean he's happy about it. Abaddon's bitching about a non-compete or some nonsense." She shrugs and pulls out her sticks. "I dunno, man. I'm just here to play some music."

Castiel's saved finding a response to that when someone yells "_Hey, Red!"_ and suddenly Castiel is surrounded; Ash in leather pants and a white t-shirt with cutoff sleeves, Benny casting an imposing shadow behind him in his jeans and henley, and Garth looking completely out of place in a crisp button up shirt and bow tie, covered in a leather bomber jacket and topped off with a fedora. When Cain joins them at the rear, Castiel sees that he hasn't bothered to change out of the black-on-black garb from the previous stint, heavy leather jacket over a t-shirt and jeans.

The house lights have already started to drop, and the crowd grows impossibly louder in anticipation, reminding Castiel of the steady build of engines warming up during a pre-flight check. The generic rock 'n roll posing as an interlude track starts to fade away.

"That's our cue," Benny booms over the ambient noise of the crowd. He casts a glance at Castiel. "Remember what I said about props."

The rest of the band go up ahead, but Charlie lingers by his side, and grins when he raises an eyebrow at her. 

"You're not gonna see anything from down here." Charlie hooks him by the elbow and drags him up the stairs, depositing him by one of the supports at the top. "Where'd you're plus-one go?"

Good question. "He's around," Castiel says. Hopes.

Charlie looks him over with a squint. "Boyfriend?"

The assumption surprises a laugh out of Castiel. "Definitely not."

"Oh," she says, looking mildly disappointed. "Damn. My gaydar's usually on-point."

"Your gaydar is fine," Castiel assures her. "He's my brother."

"Oh," she says again. "_Oh_. Okay. Wow. Sorry." She glances out on stage, where shadow-like figures are taking their places in the dark. "I mean, I dunno which step of the closet program you're on, but I want you to know it's cool. I mean, they're cool."

Castiel completely skipped the closet, but it's too long of a story to get into, right now. "Good to know."

"_Red!_" Ash yells from the darkness. 

"Pardon me, I'm being summoned," Charlie says, flashing him a grin. She grabs her drumsticks and twirls them in her fingers. "See you on the flip side!"

She disappears into the shadows, and Castiel makes a cursory glance for Gabriel over his shoulder. He has to know the show is about to start — he must be able to _hear_ the anticipation rippling in from the crowd from anywhere in the stadium— but whatever's distracted Gabriel is important enough that he hasn't found his way back yet. Castiel checks his phone, just to be sure he didn't miss a text, but the notification light isn't lit up. 

The set is as dark as the stadium when the bass and drums start rolling a steady beat over the thrum of the crowd. Lights and lasers flash white, orange, and red as the guitars start to chime in, notes chasing each other across the stage in snippets at first before finding rhythm, each taking a chorus of their own. 

Castiel can see Ash's profile silhouetted against the lights but Cain's off to stage right, blocked from view, so he just closes his eyes and listens. They make it sound like they've been playing together for years, effortlessly tossing the buck back and forth, slowly upping the ante with each pass.

Two and a half minutes in they fade for a drum solo that induces a headache trying to follow. The beats are impossible to predict and it has the crowd going crazy. Ash rolls it back down and up again, notes keeping pace with the slam of the drums, Cain riding behind him filling in the blanks until they crescendo at the top, slamming down hard and long, letting the notes ride out as long as they can.

Castiel's phone buzzes in his pocket. He turns his back to the stage and fishes it out, using his body to block the light as he reads the little text notification on the lockscreen.

  
Gabriel  
  
Gabriel: The real party's back here!  
  


Swiping the phone unlocked, Castiel sees the photo that accompanies the text. It appears Gabriel found the green room, furnished with plush, leather couches, a full open bar, and enough food to feed, Castiel thinks, the entire stadium. Gabriel took it like a selfie, and surrounding him on all sides are three women who could easily pose as centerfolds for _Sports Illustrated_. The blonde and the redhead are laughing, and the one with ebony skin is kissing his cheek. 

Castiel rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back into his pocket. At this rate, he's going to have to find a cab home.

Down below him on the ramp, Dean emerges from the darkness like a mirage, and Castiel isn't sure he's not imagining things until Dean jogs up the stairs and looks him over, the edge of his lip twisting into something resembling a smile. He's illuminated by the kaleidoscope of colored lights, dressed in a faded flannel shirt that looks like it's as old as he is. It's buttoned up half-way, revealing a bare chest beneath. A thin, black cord hangs around his neck, but the pendant dips below the V out of Castiel's sight.

"Donna said you were around here somewhere," Dean says — shouts, rather, so Castiel can hear him. He stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Castiel at the top of the stairs, and Castiel briefly wonders who Donna is and how she knows who _he_ is, but then Dean shifts, wrist weighing heavily on Castiel's shoulder as he leans in close, and Castiel can focus on nothing else. Yellow and green lights from the stage dash across his features, catching the color of his irises and making his eyes shine in the dark. "Changed your mind yet?"

There's an assortment of jewelry on Dean's wrist; a thin, braided band of leather, something metal and shiny, and several of those multi-colored beaded bracelets that press uncomfortably into the meat of Castiel's shoulder. The high-pitched whine of mic interference bleeds in from the stage and ends on the riff of a guitar, following the G-C-D chord progression Castiel is all too familiar with. 

That tune is the reason he ended up in this mess. 

"Have you?" Castiel asks, genuinely curious. When he looks back up, Dean hasn't averted his gaze, eyes steady and far too close. He wonders if Dean even knows who he is aside from a low-quality video. One google search would tell him everything he needed to know. "I told you, I'm not scared of the stage."

"Yeah, I remember." Dean pushes off and Castiel feels the world tilt to adjust; it takes a conscious effort not to follow him, like resisting the gravitational pull of a rogue star. The roar of the audience picks up as he steps into view onstage, and leans back to whisper into Castiel's ear, breath hot and heavy with what smells like whiskey, "But y'know what they say, baby. It's a long way to the top."

And then Dean's gone, trotting out into the dazzling lights and sliding in front of the mic stand without a backwards glance.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interview with Gabe shamelessly stolen from Colbert's with Chris Pratt. (yes, apparently he was a coupon salesman xD)
> 
>   * It's A Long Way To The Top (AC/DC)
>   * [KoH] Enter Sandman (Metallica)
>   * Switch 625 (Def Leppard)


End file.
